The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole

by Unknown

  Well it won’t be as much as me, Henderson. I can assure you of that fact!

  Pandora was wearing Monochromatic rags. She told me it was the latest fashion. She is coming back tomorrow.

  FRIDAY APRIL 22ND

  I asked my mother if she would go to town and buy me three T-shirts. One black, one white and one grey.

  When she came back I set about the T-shirts with a pair of scissors. Grandma took this to be a symptom of my escalating madness. I tried to explain that it was how we in the teenage sub-culture are dressing now. But she couldn’t take it in.

  When my father saw me wearing rags he went pale and almost said something. But my mother whispered, ‘Not now, George, don’t send him off again!’

  Pandora came round at 5 p.m. By the end of John Craven’s News Round we were in each other’s arms. Our rags entangled, our lips on fire.

  SATURDAY APRIL 23RD

  Pandora went round to Brain Box Henderson’s house to break the news, but he was out buying floppy disks, so she left a message on his word processor. Getting Pandora back from him is a triumph of Art over Technology.

  SUNDAY APRIL 24TH

  I am reading Kingsley, The Life, Letters and Diaries of Kingsley Martin, by C. H. Rolf. Strangely, it doesn’t mention that he wrote Lucky Jim.

  MONDAY APRIL 25TH

  Went for a walk with Pandora and Rosie.

  (That is to say Pandora and I walked, but lucky Rosie was pushed in her pram.) We called in to see Bert. He was dead pleased to see us. He has been deserted by his voluntary helpers, and hadn’t got any Woodbines in the house. He smelt rotten so we stripped him off and put him in the bath. (Bert insisted that Pandora put a flannel over her eyes for this part of the operation.) Then I washed his bit of remaining hair and gave him a good scrub down, while Pandora took Rosie and Sabre and went to Mr Patel’s for Woodbines.

  When Pandora came back we lifted Bert out of the bath (Pandora promised to keep her eyes shut) and I dried him and put him into clean pyjamas. He looked lovely with his white hair all fluffy and sticking out at the back of his head. If I’d been a householder I would have invited him to stay there and then. Bert needs twenty-four-hour round-the-clock care, by people who love him.

  The problem is that very few people, apart from Mother Teresa and a few nuns, could put up with Bert for more than a couple of days.

  I asked him if there was any chance of him turning Catholic, he said, ‘About as much chance as there is of Mrs Thatcher turning into a woman!’

  On the way home we played a good game. We pretended we were married and that Rosie was our baby. Pandora tired of the game before I did but not before several people had been fooled.

  TUESDAY APRIL 26TH

  The dog had an unfortunate accident on the kitchen floor this morning. Unfortunate for me, that is, because I had to clear it up. Knowing its use for such emergencies, I grabbed this week’s copy of the Sunday Times, and made the thrilling discovery that hitler’s diaries have been found! I quote, ‘After being hidden in a German hayloft for nearly forty years, the Sunday Times today tells the full story of this historic discovery!’ I read on avidly. And to think I nearly used such a revelatory article to wipe up a piece of dog crap!

  WEDNESDAY APRIL 27TH

  Is there no trust left in the world?

  The Hitler Diaries are being subjected to meticulous tests by scientists. Why can’t they take the Sunday Timers word for it that the diaries are genuine? Even a sceptic like me knows that the Sunday Times wouldn’t risk its reputation if there was the faintest chance that the diaries were a forgery.

  THURSDAY APRIL 28TH

  Herr Wolf-Rudiger Hess, son of Rudolph Hess (Hitler’s Deputy Maniac), has said that the Hitler Diaries are genuine. So there, Pandora! Incidentally, Rudolph Hess is eighty-nine. The same age as Bert Baxter.

  FRIDAY APRIL 29TH

  My father took me and Rosie to the bank. To help him get a bank loan. Mr Niggard, the Bank Manager, looked at my rags in a pitying way. Then said, ‘Why do you require this loan, Mr Mole? A car, a house extension or clothes for the children perhaps?’

  My father said, ‘No. I can’t afford to buy anything. I just want to feel some money in my hand again.’

  But, after hearing that my parents were both out of work and on the Social, Mr Niggard refused the loan, saying: ‘I am saving you from yourself. You will thank me one day.’

  My father said, ‘No I won’t, I’m taking my overdraft elsewhere.’

  SATURDAY APRIL 30TH

  My mother has decided that sugar is the cause of all the evil in the world, and has banned it from the house.

  She smoked two cigarettes while she informed me of her decision.

  SUNDAY MAY 1ST

  I overheard my father say, ‘Well it looks like the North Sea for me, Pauline.’

  I ran into the kitchen and said, ‘Don’t do it, Dad. The economy is bound to pick up!’

  My father looked puzzled. Perhaps he was surprised to hear such an emotional outburst from me.

  I was surprised myself.

  MONDAY MAY 2ND

  Bank Holiday

  Lord Dacre has vouched for the Hitler Diaries’ authenticity.

  So Pandora owes me £1.50 in a lost bet. Ha! Ha! Ha!

  TUESDAY MAY 3RD

  Back to School

  Quite a few changes have taken place since I was last at school. Mr Jones the PE teacher has got the sack, and Mr Lambert has married Ms Fossington-Core; he is now called Mr Lambert-Fossington-Gore. She is called Ms Fossington-Gore-Lambert.

  Mr Scruton is on sick leave, suffering from a breakdown due to compiling the timetable, so Podgy Pickles the Deputy Head has taken over his functions. The new regime is a bit more relaxed, though not yet liberal enough to enable me to wear my rags to school.

  We spent the first day back being taught how to revise for the dreaded O levels.

  6p.m. Started revising English, Biology and Geography.

  7p.m. Decided to concentrate on one subject at a time. Chose English.

  8 p.m. Finished revising when Bert Baxter phoned and requested my help. His toilet is blocked again.

  WEDNESDAY MAY 4TH

  Got a letter from L. S. Caton - the man who recognizes my writing talent. The postmark said ‘New York.’

  Dear Adrian Mole,

  Thank you for sending me the first page of your novel, Longing for Wolverhampton. I am sure that any publishing house worth its salt would jump at the chance to publish such a promising piece of work.

  For a small consideration (shall we say, $100), I would be pleased to promote your book.

  Make your cheque out to: L. S. Caton Ltd and send it to me, c/o The Dixon Motel,

  1,599 Block 19,

  NY State

  USA

  My father refused to give me the money after reading the first page of Longing for Wolverhampton He said, ‘I’ve read some rubbish in my life, but this…’

  THURSDAY MAY 5TH

  My father has gone for an interview to be a roustabout on an oil rig in the North Sea.

  My father a roustabout!

  It is nearly as good as having a cowboy for a father. I hope he gets the job. He will be away one fortnight in two.

  FRIDAY MAY 6TH

  Yet another disenchantment.

  The Hitler Diaries are a hoax. I have paid Pandora £1.50.

  I am dead disappointed, I was looking forward to reading about what maniacs eat for breakfast, and how they behave in private.

  SATURDAY MAY 7TH

  Spent all day revising with Pandora in her mother’s study.

  Our house is intolerable because my father is beside himself with grief at being turned down by the oil rig firm.

  I told him it was a bit premature to buy the check shirts and jeans, before he’d been notified that he’d got the job, but he wouldn’t listen.

  Now he owes Grandma £38.39.

  SUNDAY MAY 8TH

  The Sunday Times has printed a grovelling apology to its readers
, and ex-readers.

  I will save today’s edition and use it to clean up any future dog crap. Adrian Mole does not like being made to look a fool.

  Especially in front of the future Mrs Adrian Mole, nee Pandora Braithwaite.

  MONDAY MAY 9TH

  Mrs Thatcher has called a General Election for June 9th!

  How selfish can you get?

  Doesn’t she know that the May and early June period is supposed to be kept quiet, while teenagers revise for their exams? How can we study when loudspeakers are blaring out lying promises, day and night, and canvassers are continually knocking on the door, reminding floating voters that it’s ‘make your mind up’ time? It’s all right for her to announce she is going to the country, but some of us can’t afford that luxury.

  TUESDAY MAY 1OTH

  I keep getting anxiety attacks every time I think about the exams.

  I know I’m going to fail.

  My overriding problem is that I’m too intellectual: I am constantly thinking about things, like: was God married? and: if Hell is other people, is Heaven empty?

  These thoughts overload my brain, causing me to forget facts. Such as: the average rainfall in the average Equatorial Forest and other boring stuff.

  WEDNESDAY MAY 11TH

  Grandma has given me some brain pills as a revision aid.

  They are concocted from a disgusting part of a bull. She said, ‘Your dead grandad swore by them.’ I swallowed two this morning but by the afternoon I still couldn’t remember the capital of British Honduras.

  I swore by them as well.

  THURSDAY MAY 12TH

  I thought my parents had given up the idea of moving house, but no! My mother struck terror into my heart and bowels at breakfast time by announcing that after the exams, we are going to sell our house and move to a desolate area of Wales! She said, ‘I want to give us a chance of surviving a nuclear attack.’

  I have written to the Council asking to be put on the waiting list.

  I requested a two-bedroom flat facing south, with bal-cony and a working lift.

  FRIDAY MAY I3TH

  My mother and father are having to negotiate a new Marriage Contract. I’m not surprised; my father hates Wales. He even complains when it is shown on television.

  My mother has borrowed ominous books from the library: The Treatment of Radiation Burns; Bee-Keeping, an Introduction; and Living without Men - A Practical Guide.

  SATURDAY MAY 14TH

  10 a.m. A bloke in a blue-and-white pin-striped suit, blue shirt, blue tie, blue rosette, has just knocked at the door. Thrust his hand out, said, ‘Julian Pryce-Pinfold: your Conservative candidate, I trust I have your vote!’

  I was quite pleased to be taken for eighteen. But I said, ‘No, you are planning to exterminate the working class!’

  Pryce-Pinfold laughed like a horse and said, ‘I say, don’t go over the top old chap, we’re just trying to trim ’em down a bit!’

  He left his poster so I drew devil’s horns on his head and wrote ‘666’ on his forehead, and put it up in the lounge window.

  SUNDAY MAY 15TH

  A bloke in a grey suit, white shirt and red tie, has just disturbed my Biology revision by knocking on the door and announcing that he is the Labour candidate. He said, ‘I’m Dave Blakely and I’m going to get Britain back to work!’

  My father asked him if there were any jobs going in the Labour Party headquarters. (A sign of his desperation.)

  Dave Blakely said that he had never been to the head-quarters so he didn’t know.

  He said, ‘I disagree with official Labour policy.’

  My mother harangued him about nuclear disarmament and criticized the Labour Party’s record on housing, education and trade union co-operation.

  Dave Blakely said, ‘I suppose you’re a Tory, are you, madam?’

  My mother snapped: ‘Certainly not, I have voted Labour all my life!’

  MONDAY MAY 16TH

  A blond man in a blazer, with a regimental badge, stood outside the school gates handing out election leaflets this afternoon. I read mine on the way home. The man is called Duncan Mcintosh and his party is called ‘The Send ’Em Back Where They Come From Party’. Its policy is the compulsory repatriation of: black people, brown people, yellow people, tinged people, Jewish, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Celtic and all those who have Norman blood.

  In fact only those who can prove to be pure-bred flaxen-haired Saxons are to be allowed to live in this country.

  My mother has worked out that if he came to power the population of Great Britain would be reduced to one.

  TUESDAY MAY 17TH

  Barry Kent has threatened Duncan Mcintosh with grievous bodily harm unless he keeps away from our school.

  He has joined ‘Rock against Racism’ (Barry Kent not Duncan Mcintosh).

  WEDNESDAY MAY 18TH

  The SDP candidate (green suit, orange shirt, neutral tie, nervous smile) has just left our house on the verge of tears, after my mother refused to let her kiss Rosie.

  THURSDAY MAY 19TH

  I was shown a blurred picture of a broken-down cottage this morning, and asked if I would like to live there.

  I replied in the negative.

  My mother said, ‘It sounds perfect. It’s two miles from the nearest shop and fifty-five miles from the nearest American Air Base! Wouldn’t you like to get up in the morning and feed the chickens, Adrian?’

  I replied, ‘I hate chickens. Their nasty beaks and cruel eyes absolutely repel me.’

  FRIDAY MAY 20TH

  Scruton has retired on the grounds of ill health (gone barmy) and Podgy Pickles has got his name screwed on to the Headmaster’s door.

  I have never been taught by Podgy, but by all accounts he is a nice bloke who talks about his family, and informs his class when he is thinking of buying a new car.

  He took assembly this morning. He had dried egg yolk running down the length of his tie. I know because I was standing next to him. He had called me up to the stage to address the school on ‘Why I think school uniform should be abolished!’ I spoke from the heart, citing my parents’ poverty, and bringing tears to the eyes of Ms Fossington-Gore-Lambert.

  SATURDAY MAY 21ST

  My father ordered three politicians out of the front garden this morning. He said, ‘My son is upstairs studying for a better future, and your constant clamouring for attention is distracting him!’

  Actually I was measuring my thing at the time, but their noise was distracting. I kept losing my place on the tape-measure.

  SUNDAY MAY 22ND

  Rosie started crawling at 5 p.m.

  My parents gave her a standing ovation.

  MONDAY MAY 23RD

  My English essay ‘Despair’ was read out to the class.

  Everyone looked dead miserable at the end. It is a story about a hamster with an incurable disease. I asked Mr Lambert-Fossington-Core if it was of sufficient quality to send to the BBC.

  He laughed and said, ‘Only the Natural History Unit at Bristol.’

  I have taken his advice and sent it.

  TUESDAY MAY 24TH

  I have hung a notice on my door. It says: ‘ATTENTION! NO ONE ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT!’

  I am sick of having my privacy invaded.

  WEDNESDAY MAY 25TH

  No one came into my room to wake me up. So I was late for school and when I got home my dirty washing was still on the floor and my curtains were drawn.

  THURSDAY MAY 26TH

  My racing bike has been stolen from out of the back garden.

  The prime suspects are the dustmen. They have never forgiven us for having maggots in our dustbin last summer.

  FRIDAY MAY 27TH

  Followed the dustbin men up our road and tried to over-hear any suspicious conversation, but they were only talking about Len Fairclough.

  One of them warned me to keep away from the mangling machinery at the back. Was this a hint of the violence to come, if I voice my suspicions to the police?

&nbs
p; SATURDAY MAY 28TH

  Nigel brought my bike back today.

  He intended to run away on it to avoid his O levels, but decided not to after his father bought him a set of video cassette study aids. We are the only family in our street who haven’t got a video, so there’s no point in asking my parents for similar technological help. I will just have to rely on my brain.

  SUNDAY MAY 29TH

  Stayed in bed all day revising.

  Bert Baxter phoned three times but each time I told my parents to tell him that I was out of town.

  The third time he rang, my mother said, ‘Was it anything important, Bert?’ Bert said, ‘Not really, I just wanted to tell him that I think I’m ninety today.’

  Felt such a rat fink that I pretended to return from out of town. I went to see him and gave him ninety gentle bumps (although I’m sure he’s due at least one more).

  It seemed to do him good.

  MONDAY MAY 30TH

  Wrote some lyrics for Danny Thompson’s reggae band.

  Hear what he saying by A. Mole

  Sisters and Brothers listen to Jah,

  Hear his words from near and far,

  Haile Selassie he sit on the throne.

  Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. {Repeated 10

  times.) jah! jah! jah!

  Rise up and follow Selassie, the king.

  A new tomorrow to you he will bring. {Repeat.)

  E-thi-o-pi-a,

  He’ll bring new hope to ya.

  Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. {Repeated 20 times.)

  I gave it to Danny Thompson in Geography.

  He read it, and said, ‘Not bad, for a honky!’

  What a cheek, he’s twice as white as I am!

  Pandora’s mother has decided that the dynamics in our family are beyond her. She has recommended that we go to see a family therapist.

  TUESDAY MAY 31ST

  Got a letter from Johnny Tydeman.

  I can’t remember any of the references it contains.